


where you came from

by paox



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, The Creatures | Cow Chop RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, FAHC, FAHC Origins, Fake Chop, Gen, M/M, god this is a mess but i love it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 23:10:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paox/pseuds/paox
Summary: James drags him into one last hug - and for somebody so non-tactile, it means a lot - and then lets him go, and Jeremy stumbles off down the path, hitching his backpack on his shoulders and forcing himself to keep looking forwards because he knows if he looked back, if he saw James standing there in the doorway with his hair loose around his shoulders and Aleks’ ring on his finger and that resigned, devastated look on his face, he wouldn’t have the strength to keep walking.--jeremy used to be a part of fake chop, but that was a long time ago. when they rock up at los santos? well, that causes a bit of a mess





	where you came from

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zoewinter1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoewinter1/gifts).



> THIS IS A MESS GOD   
> no proofreading we die like men   
> enjoy!

Jeremy starts life alone - sure, he’s got parents, but they’re not around enough to know much about him and he knows even less about them. The streets of his hometown are a jungle, and he a young, foraging savage, tailed by a pack of nameless teen ruffians he doesn’t bother to get to know. It’s a surprisingly lonely existence - living day to day, only ever thinking about where your next meal is going to come from and where you’re going to sleep tonight - and the years blur into a mess of slipping his hand into pockets as he passes people in the street and being followed around stores by attendants because they know his type and examining the bruises on his hips and back that come from sleeping in worse, more uncomfortable places with each coming day. 

By the time he’s seventeen years old, there’s never been anybody he can ever say he’s loved - or even trusted, really - and he hightails it out of these with a pocketful of change and a stolen jacket that’s too big for him. He’s short, muscled but underfed, and scrappy and sly and used to taking care of himself. Life isn’t easy, but it never has been, so he’s pretty used to it - he skips between cities, working a few jobs here and there but ultimately never settling down because nobody (let alone an employer or a landlord or the  _ police) _ trusts a kid like him. Not ever. 

Jeremy gets into crime - not just pickpocketing or petty theft but real, hard crime, running with gangs and firing guns at the police and lighting fires with smuggled kerosene - when he’s twenty. It’s a pretty easy way to make cash and most gangs are pretty sincere when it comes to Jeremy’s wishes to stay anonymous and unattached - he does whatever they want him to do and leaves, no strings attached, just that little bit richer. That’s the way it works most of the time and though it’s a pain to clean himself up after being beat up when people  _ don’t  _ keep their mouths shut, the lifestyle is pretty good for the majority of the time. 

Until now, anyway. 

This gang was shifty from the start, something off about them from the moment Jeremy first entered their base, he ends up thinking as he runs for his goddamn life. Colorado is new and foreign to him, unfamiliar in a way that only feeds the panic burning inside him. He pounds up the streets, runs and runs and doesn’t stop even as he hears them pursue, and god his arm fucking  _ burns.  _

They called themselves the Hub. Jeremy doesn’t tend to research the gangs he works for beforehand, not really granting himself that much foresight when most of the time it proves to be pretty useless, and he entered the fold of their little gang blind. Even now, he doesn’t remember most of their names, but he definitely remembers how loose the leader’s tongue was - how he just spilled their deepest and darkest secrets to his second-in-command with an ease that made it seem like Jeremy wasn’t even there. He probably should have picked up on the fact that something was wrong at that point - but he’s still a kid, for fuck’s sake, and sometimes when you need the money it’s hard not to allow yourself to risk it all to get it. 

In the end, Jeremy didn’t realise that something was wrong with the Hub until after the heist (which wasn’t a complete failure but left them all tired and bloody and dark-eyed), the leader turned his gun on Jeremy and leveled it right between his eyes. 

And he might be young, but goddamnitt, Jeremy is far from stupid. When somebody’s pointing a gun at you point-blank range, there’s not much hope for you but being able to move quick enough and get behind cover before they squeeze the trigger. He remembers diving behind a wall and a gunshot, and a bullet scuffing the concrete an inch from his head, and then he remembers running - the clumsy, manic, heavy-footed beginnings of the sprint, head spinning, trying to find his bearings, adrenaline - and the war drums of pursuing footsteps behind him, and more gunshots, and a terrible pain in his arm. 

_ They meant to kill you from the start,  _ Jeremy’s muddled brain tells him as he tears around a corner, and he swears under his breath. 

It’s not even the worst area, he ends up realising bizarrely as he runs, arms pumping and feet aching as they pound the concrete and his ears ring high and sharp with adrenaline. Not quite picket-fence-suburban but a downtown, edge of the city kind of area with newish houses and the odd flickering streetlamp and not too much graffiti. The night has long since closed in and he’s still being chased and Jeremy knows that he’s losing a lot of blood when his brain begins to register things like the fact that he can’t see any stars above and there are no cars on the roads and there’s a man standing maybe twenty feet ahead of him, a dark silhouette beneath a streetlamp, arms crossed and- 

Jeremy’s pursuers stop chasing, their footsteps skidding to a halt, and there are no more gunshots but Jeremy keeps on running because it’s the only thing he knows how to do at this point. His vision is patchy and he doesn’t register that there’s somebody in front of him until their hand is in the middle of his chest, pushing him to halt, and there’s a voice telling him  _ Jesus, kid, stop,  _ and he listens. 

The floor rushes up and Jeremy ends up pressed against the wall, sitting on the pavement and cradling his arm and trying to stop the bleeding as his vision fades back in. The guy is standing over him - he’s wearing combat boots and dark jeans and his arms are crossed again, and he’s scowling, face half-lit by the glow of the street light. 

The Hub - or rather, three of the Hub - are standing a few dozen metres down the street, weapons not holstered but not raised, looking cautious. One of them (wearing a red cap, so okay, the leader) yells, “He’s ours, Hundar. Ours fair and square. And we’re not looking to start a fight here-”

‘Hundar’ scowls deeper, the shadows deep-set on his face, and takes a step towards them. Something about his stance reminds Jeremy of a wolf, he realises, and then subsequently realises that damn, he really has lost too much blood. 

“I don’t want a fight either, assholes, so get out. Go on, fucking scram, dickbags. He’s just a fucking kid - what are you doing now, taking them from their momma’s arms?”

Jeremy wants to argue but it comes out as this weird little noise that sounds too weak for comfort. Hundar doesn’t even look at him.

“He’s older than most of your crew-”

“Yeah, and speaking of my crew,” Hundar spits, “I think they should be arriving soon. So maybe you should get the fuck out before they do, yeah?”

Red-cap stares for a moment, gun half-raised, and Jeremy shifts his hand where it’s pressing against the bullet hole and ends up pressing on a tender spot and his vision goes back for a moment-

When it comes back, they’re alone - Hundar is leaning over him, on one knee, trying to get a good look at his face. “You from around here, kid?”

It takes Jeremy maybe ten seconds to decipher what the simple words mean, and a handful more to come up with an answer and force his mouth to work properly. “I’m… nah, not really- out of town, mostly came by for the cash-”

Hundar sighs. “You picked the wrong gang with the Hub, trust me.”

“I-” Jeremy coughs, harsh and hollow and wet, and it hurts his aching chest. “Yeah, yeah, noticed that.”

Hundar mutters something under his breath that sounds like  _ gangs  _ and  _ crashing  _ and  _ desperate, dying fucks _ and then says, “What’s your name, kid?”

Jeremy goes through the automatic process of searching for a lie for a split second before realising that he can’t even remember what his real name is. Then, he passes out. 

**\--**

Waking up hurts. 

Senses come back one by one - touch, then hearing, then taste, then smell. He feels lumpy pillows beneath his body and something cloying and ratty draped over him and knows somebody has dumped him on a couch, under what feels like a thin blanket. A few metres away, maybe, there’s a radio blaring shitty old classics that nobody listens to anymore, and there’s a bitter taste in Jeremy’s mouth, distinct enough that he recognises it as blood. The air smells almost sweet but almost chemical, like cleaning materials or disinfectant.

And yep, he has no idea where the fuck he is. 

Memory comes back less easily. Jeremy remembers a red cap and a sky with no stars, and bits of concrete as they skittered across the ground in the wake of a gunshot, and somebody kneeling over him with eyes like a wolf and then nothing at all. 

There’s a sudden buzzing noise a few feet to his left and Jeremy forces himself not to open his eyes, to stay still and silent as he hears somebody shifting around across the room. The buzzing starts again and then cuts off, and there’s a guy’s voice - young, low, with the last traces of an accent. 

“Hello? ...Yeah, it’s Aleks.”

Jeremy wracks his brain for anything he might know about an Aleks, where he might have heard the name before, and comes up blank. Nothing.  _ Damnitt. _

Praying that Aleks is just some kindly, civilian soul naive enough to let Jeremy rob him, Jeremy strains his ears to catch the rest of the conversation - but there are footsteps, the creaking of floorboards in the opposite direction as ‘Aleks’ leaves the room, and he only catches snippets of the conversation, words like  _ James _ and  _ yeah _ and  _ the Hub _ and  _ got the bullet out, he was out cold  _ and  _ Brett _ and a heated  _ well if they do, tell them to fuck themselves, yeah? _

Not a civilian, then. Fuck. 

The talking stops and there are footsteps leading back into the room, and to the couch, and somebody shakes Jeremy’s shoulder surprisingly gently. Still hurts like a bitch, though, and he must not have hid his wince very well because Aleks’ voice says, “Come on, I know you’re awake, dipshit.”

Jeremy has to blink a few times, sleep thick in his eyes as he opens them, and the first thing he sees is dark eyes - then pale skin and dark hair, spiked up in the front, and faint acne scars and a bomber jacket with the outline of a pistol tucked into the inside pocket. Aleks looks about his age, with thin lips and a little crease between his dark eyebrows, but he grins when Jeremy meets his gaze and says, “Hey.”

It’s too casual a greeting and Jeremy doesn’t like it, but doesn’t really have the energy to be paranoid. The only thing he can think of being right now is blunt. “Who are you?”

“Aleks, with a k.” Aleks rounds the couch and crouches beside it, sticking his hand out for Jeremy to shake, still with that strange, sly grin. “Fake Chop. Our guy picked you up last night.”

“I-”  _ shitshitshitshitshit _ , “Yeah, I remember.”

Jeremy shakes Aleks’ hand and tries not to stare at the pistol in his jacket, or the boxes of ammo in the corner, or the bullet holes peppered in the wall, or the tanks of kerosene stacked near the couch, or the knowing, cold-hard-criminal look in Aleks’ dark eyes, or the bullet shells that somebody has used in place of fridge magnets in the little attached kitchen, or anything at all. 

_ Well, Dooley, you’re fucked now.  _

**\--**

Little does Jeremy know that that was, in fact, the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

He doesn’t  _ join  _ Fake Chop per se (they’re too chaotic, too tight-knit and complex, and Jeremy doesn’t like joining crews, not ever) but he comes about as close to it as somebody can get. After telling them everything he can remember about the Hub and its secrets, and after getting patched up by Anna and thanking Hundar (even though his real name is Brett), Jeremy just carries on living off of their couch for a while and nobody really questions it. He runs jobs with them and knows all of their real names and faces and secrets, and fits into their little corner of Denver’s crime world well, and it’s nice, for a while. 

Aleks is probably his favourite, aside from maybe Brett or James - Aleks, nineteen years old, a runaway from the Hub along with James and Joe and Aron, who originally came from Russia and hasn’t completely lost his accent yet. Aleks sets too many fires, literal and metaphorical, and has no impulse control and doesn’t know how to hold his tongue and loses his temper too easily, but he also joins Jeremy on the couch some nights to show him funny memes on his phone or shares a joint with him or drags James in to watch a shitty movie together, the three of them. 

And then there’s James, of course - Puerto Rican, twenty-one, the leader (even though he’s half as authoritative as Brett), with a short temper but a good heart. He teaches Jeremy the things he’s had to teach himself, like the proper way to hold a rifle and how to rig charges around a door and the best places to hide when you’ve got half the PD on your ass. James is funny and charismatic and likeable in a way Aleks isn’t, though he doesn’t have any more of an impulse control, and Aleks and James just seem to gravitate towards each other whenever they’re in the same room. 

(there are tender moments between the two of them sometimes, when they’re  _ James and Aleks  _ and not  _ Nova and Immortal, _ moments where it’s like the rest of the world disappears, and Jeremy coughs and looks away and pretends not to notice) 

The rest of the crew are just as likeable, like this dumb, young family that just so happen to be criminals. There’s Brett, obviously - protective, assertive, confident Brett, more practical and cunning than James and Aleks combined - but there’s also Joe and Aron and Trevor and Asher and Anna, who all lie on a scale that ranges between ‘great friend’ and ‘absolute madman’. Jeremy likes them all, and they all like him, and he slots into their weird little family dynamic (a mob-boss dad and his Russian son and his short-tempered partner and a handful of siblings with Trevor and Asher sitting solidly at the youngest, at fifteen and seventeen respectively) and it’s  _ good. _

Fake Chop gains notoriety, they become more than just  _ that gang that split from the Hub, _ and Jeremy is right there with them as they grow. The first time they pull of a completely and utterly flawless heist - not just a shakedown or a deal, an honest to god GTA-style  _ heist - _ they make it out of there with hundreds of thousands and Aleks sets off fireworks in the base when they get back and the sparks make the piles of banknotes all ashy and nobody cares. Sometimes it feels like even Brett loses his impulse control in this brigade of heathens and they spend each and every day doing stupid shit: breaking all the doors in the base, or buying weird things off of Amazon with their piles of stolen money and blowing said shit up, or setting off smoke grenades outside of downtown police HQ just for the fun of it. 

There’s something gentle about it all though, so familial that it almost scares Jeremy, who has never experienced anything that could even realistically come close to  _ friendship. _ There’s family in everything Fake Chop does - in how they never let Trevor or Asher near alcohol, even though Jeremy knows that Asher always manages to steal some for the pair of them anyway, and in how everybody drops whatever they’re doing if Joe tells them it’s risky because they trust him that much, and in how there’s always somebody there to take the booze away from Aleks when the shadows enter his eyes. For such a young gang, they have this unbreakable tie that binds them all together and Jeremy can’t stop them from pulling him in too, and for a while he doesn’t even mind it. 

(Asher tells him one night, James and Aleks asleep in a little huddle a few feet away as the two of them share a pot noodle, that Jeremy is family now and that it’s never going to change, and Jeremy doesn’t answer - just forces a laugh and pokes Asher’s face hard with his fork, eyes burning with lack of sleep and something else.)

And of course, it doesn’t last.

Jeremy is twenty-two when it gets too much - when Aleks gets hurt on a job again and it’s his fault and James is being held back by Joe, yelling the loudest Jeremy has ever heard him yell before, an explosion of rage that isn’t uncommon for him at this point but with this look in his eyes like he wants to tear Jeremy apart. It stings, though not as much as the pain that comes as Aleks yelps, ragged and hurt, stretched out on the kitchen table as Anna digs a bullet out from between his ribs.

After it’s all over, after Aleks has passed out and Trevor and Asher are asleep shoulder-to-shoulder on the kitchen floor and Anna has cleaned the blood off her hands and disappeared into the night, Jeremy finds James in one of the rooms upstairs, taking apart his pistol and putting it back together and taking it apart and putting it back together and taking it apart again-

“Hey, Jeremy.” James has never sounded so goddamn tired.

“I, uh, I-” and Jeremy just lingers there in the door for a few seconds, hovering on the threshold, “I can come back later, I just wanted to say-” 

“C’mere.” 

James stands up then, grabs Jeremy’s arm and tugs him into the room and into a rough hug. Jeremy hugs back and only realises at that moment how much it  _ fucking sucks  _ when James is mad at you. 

James eventually lets go and says, “Listen, you know I didn’t mean it. It’s just, with Aleks… when he gets hurt…”

Forget tired - James has never sounded that fucking  _ vulnerable  _ before, and Jeremy hates it, and he rushes in to say, “I know, I get it. I… feel the same way, about all of you, it fucking sucks when you get hurt and I… I don’t blame you for getting mad, James.”

James rubs his face tiredly. The light is on but the bulb is dull, casting his face into shadow like it did Brett’s all those days ago, and Aleks’ ring is still on James’ middle finger (he gives it to him before every heist, this little ritual they have that needs no words, and James gives it back when they both make it out alive).

“I’ve... “ Jeremy starts, staring at the floor. “I’ve been afraid of getting close. For a long time. To anybody, really, and… and I care about all of you, more than I’ve ever cared about anybody. And, James, it’s been two goddamn years, and I’m… I’m too close, James. After tonight, I’m too close, and-”

And James understands in that moment - Jeremy sees the light switch on in his head - and all he does is nod silently and take a deep breath and then he helps Jeremy pack his stuff, and pats him on the back as the sun starts to peak over the horizon and Jeremy stands in the doorway of their little base and he says, “Take care of yourself, yeah? We’ll always be here if you need us, you know the number.”

Jeremy nods, choked up. “Tell the others I said… tell them I said goodbye, okay?”

“Got it.” James drags him into one last hug - and for somebody so non-tactile, it means a lot - and then lets him go, and Jeremy stumbles off down the path, hitching his backpack on his shoulders and forcing himself to keep looking forwards because he knows if he looked back, if he saw James standing there in the doorway with his hair loose around his shoulders and Aleks’ ring on his finger and that resigned, devastated look on his face, he wouldn’t have the strength to keep walking. 

(Aleks texts him later, a simple  _ we’ll always be here,  _ and a few hours later Brett sends him a message that says  _ keep in touch kid, the others miss you already, _ and Jeremy throws his phone in the gutter.) 

(It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to make himself do)

**\--**

Los Santos is different from any place Jeremy has ever been in his life, and god knows he’s been to a lot of places. 

The Fakes are a breath of fresh air on Jeremy’s weathered, toughened flesh, and they’re all-encompassing in the amount of pure loyalty they have for each other. Geoff takes him in off the street and doesn’t give him a choice in the matter and with them it’s like he earns his stripes and for the first time; Jeremy finds himself thinking  _ yes, this is where I’m supposed to be _ as he roars down the street on his motorbike with Michael clinging onto him, both of them laughing like maniacs as the flashing  _ red-blue-red-blue-red-blue-red-blue  _ of cop cars disappears into the night far behind them. They get back to Geoff’s penthouse and Jack checks Jeremy for injuries, hands gentle with a warm look in his eyes, and Geoff ruffles his hair and Gavin says  _ my bois! _ and the three of them go out for bevs together and life has never been this fucking  _ good.  _

The time comes, of course, when the paranoia catches up - when Geoff looks death in the face on a heist and the bullet embeds itself in concrete a centimeter from his temple, and when Michael comes home at four am one night with burns all over him and a dead look in his eyes, and when Ryan gets stabbed and can do nothing but choke Jeremy’s name in a stream of mumbled syllables as they stumble home. Jeremy’s nightmares are consumed with it - with images of his new family torn apart, dying, dead and gone and never coming back - and one night he finds himself outside of Geoff’s room at three in the morning, stumbling over his words as he tells Geoff that he’s _ been afraid of getting close, for a long time, to anybody, really, and, and, he cares about all of them, more than he’s ever cared about anybody, but- _

Geoff tells him, plain and simple, with no room for argument, “We’re not going to let you be alone again, Jeremy. Suck it up - you’re one of us now, and we’re with you to the goddamn grave.”

There’s no room for argument.

Jeremy stays. 

Time goes on. The FAHC grow larger than Fake Chop ever got, going from the kind of crew that operates out of a spare bedroom to the kind of crew that everybody has heard of - the kind of crew that is big and bad and dangerous and rich. Jeremy lives for the thrill of it, for explosions and adrenaline and the afterglow that comes with waking up the morning after it all with the lads and playing GTA and laughing at how fucking stupid the game is compared to the real thing. He’s never really felt home like he felt it in that little house in Colorado until now, when every day is a day when he wakes up and spends his time running wild with Geoff and Jack and Ryan and his two bois, blowing shit up and getting stupidly, ridiculously rich and carving and scorching their names into eternity with switchblades and petrol and lighters and bombs. 

(Jeremy doesn’t forget Fake Chop - of course he doesn’t - but he tries to, and the only times he ever talks about it he forgets about it by the next morning in a thick haze of alcohol, and only knows he ever mentioned it at all because Michael and Gavin look at him in this sad way for a while.)

By the time Jeremy hits twenty-six, life hasn’t settled in the slightest - god knows it’s as chaotic as ever - but it’s become a life he’s never been happier in. Geoff is a fucking mess but honestly, what else is new, and Jack is still as kind as he’s ever been and Ryan isn’t scary at all anymore (at least, not to Jeremy). Jeremy wakes up every morning with Michael or Gavin or both in his bed and he doesn’t know what the three of them are, not really, but he figures that it’s something good when Gavin giggles against his lips beneath the covers and Michael murmurs the kind of tender shit he’d never say if he was awake in his sleep, and presses his face between Jeremy’s shoulder blades. 

He’s on a job, actually, when it fucking happens. 

Gavin is their best negotiator by far, with a blunt and witty humour and that carefully crafted  _ Golden Boy  _ persona that Jeremy half-admires, half-hates. However, he’s not nearly as observant as Jack, and he doesn’t have the kind of street-honed instinct that Jeremy has about when the best time is to  _ get the hell out of there, _ so both of them come along too, flanking Gavin as he sits with the leader of some nameless downtown gang and talks business. It goes smoothly, of course - Gavin is good at his job - and the deal settles on an offer significantly better than Geoff’s minimum (not that Gavin would ever mention that). By the time the other gang trek out of the warehouse, all three of them are grinning. 

“That was great, Gavin!” Jack says, with that pragmatic enthusiasm he always has. “Fuckin’ awesome. I’ll let Geoff know.”

As Jack wanders across the warehouse, thrown into shadow by the gridded light from the slats above, Jeremy sits across from Gavin in the seat the thuggish rival leader previously sat in and grins, feeling giddy like a new member even though he’s been doing this shit for a long goddamn time.

“How was that, Lil J?”

“Y’know what, Gav? Not bad. Pretty great, actually.”

Gavin beams and under the table, curls his ankles around one of Jeremy’s. For a moment in time, that feeling that keeps on coming hits Jeremy again, for the millionth time in these four years:  _ yes, this is where I’m supposed to be. _

And then suddenly, from the shadows across the warehouse, a skinny, lanky figure bolts for the door. 

**\--**

The chase is quick - the kid is a fast runner, with long legs and a hell of a lot of stamina, but he’s young and obviously doesn’t know the city as well as Gavin and Jeremy do, and when they eventually catch up with him in an alleyway and Jeremy pins him to the wall, knees him hard in the stomach, the kid looks so scared that Jeremy (fuck, what a soppy idiot, Jeremy tells himself) feels bad immediately. 

Hands braced on the kid’s narrow shoulders, pressing him back against the wall, Jeremy says, “Who the hell are you?! Who are you working for?!”

“Please, I- fuck, please, fuck, please just let me go-” The kid isn’t crying, but he’s panicking, squirming and wriggling with his dark eyes filled with terror. “Look, I swear I’ll forget everything I said, just-”

“My partner asked you a question,” Gavin says, in that offhand way that always makes him seem just a little terrifying. “I’d suggest you answer it.”

“I- I just-” The kid swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and Jeremy notices a little crack in the corner of his glasses. “F-Fake Chop. I work for Fake Chop, okay? I- I swear. Nova and Immortal, those guys? I’m- I’m with them - and I swear, it wasn’t their fault, they didn’t tell me to come here- I was just curious, man, fuck, I don’t know- but I swear it wasn’t their fault, please don’t fucking kill them, dude-”

But Jeremy’s hands have gone lax on his shoulders, and he feels his jaw go slack, and the kid stares up at him with wide-eyes as Jeremy feels like he’s been punched with an iron fist, right in the gut. Gavin is staring at him, confused, obviously not connecting the dots, and Jeremy chokes on his words as he says, “Take me to your base.”

“But- but, I mean, you’re- I- seriously, dude, what the fuck-” The kid shoots a shaky look at Gavin. “Even fucking him, man, seriously-”

“Just me, then-” Jeremy grabs the kid’s skinny forearm, so hard it must hurt, but he doesn’t care. “Take me to see Fake Chop. Now, kid.”

And with no other option, the kid (who Jeremy will later learn is called Jakob, and is twenty years old, and has been in the criminal world not even four months, and who used to want to be a basketball player before he got pulled into this mess, and who is scared of the fakes and haus and pine and even his own gang, still not even used to how loud gunshots really are, so goddam young) nods, and turns, and leads Jeremy off to see his old family again. 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you can!


End file.
